Page 81 of Jaded

“Yeah,” I say, which should feel wrong, because I don’t tell people about the songs, not even Charlie or Syd. Only Brenda knows. “Sometimes I do.”

“But not the words?”

“I’m not a poet.”

“So.” He wriggles, drawing my gaze down to the floor. His bare feet wave side to side like windshield wipers. “What does it, um, sound like?”

I tear my gaze from his wiggling feet. “Sound like?”

“It’smusic,” he groans, smacks a palm against his forehead. “You gotta sing it for me, Nattie.”

This brutal new reality strikes sharply against the inside of my ribs. Of course I do, because it’s not just a song, not just words, it’sboth, and that’s what happens when you’ve got the song and the words—you sing it. You fucking sing it.

“I’m not going to—”

“Sing it.” His brows arch towards his hairline. “Don’t be a shy little mouse.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “Right. Because everything about me saysshy little mouse.”

“That’s what makes it funny.” Olli’s grin turns crooked, teasing. “Mouse. It’s a perfect nickname.”

“You’re not calling me that.”

“Sing it, Mouse.”

“Only if you never call me that again,” I say, but I’m smiling too, because the way that smile blossoms across his entire face makes me lightheaded.

“I make no promises because I’m kind of forgetful.” He lifts a hand over his heart. “But I will do my best.”

“Okay.” But another idea blooms in my chest. A bold one. “I’ll sing it, but first you tell me about the tattoo on your back.”

His smile softens, brows lift. “You want to know about my teeny little ink?”

“Yes,” I say, caution to the fucking wind because I want to know, so I’m going to ask. “What is it?”

He turns away to face the opposite wall, so the length of his spine is exposed to me. I’ve never looked before, after that initial glimpse, never let myself look. But now, I drink in the sight of it.

“It’s a spine,” I say, confusion lacing my voice as I study the lines of ink tracing along the center of his back. The outlines of vertebrae trace over the bone beneath the dark skin. “On your spine?”

“It is indeed.” Olli straightens, stealing the ink from my view. “Some of it, um, covers up surgery scars.”

“You hadspine surgery?” I ask, startling. “That’s terrifying.”

“Yep. When I was fifteen. Bad check, broke my spine, this whole thing. They weren’t sure I’d ever walk again, let alone play. But . . .” He shrugs, keeps his gaze cast out across the locker room. “Here I am.”

“That’s fucking amazing,” I say, and I mean it. I worked hard at hockey, once. Fought to be better than my peers, to get out from under Jesse’s shadow. But in the end, my self-destruction overcame me.

“It’s not amazing.” Olli shrugs again. “It wasn’t ever a choice, really. Hockey’s always been my everything.”

“I get that.” When I tilt my head towards him this time, I see him in a new light—the boy with the spine tattooed down his back, with the song on his fingertips and the game in his heart. Just like me, so much like me, and yet so different.

Better.

That single word arrives on my tongue, ready to burst forth. But Olli speaks first.

“Hockey and music.” He sighs, almost a hum, a tiny taste of music itself. “Only things that ever make me feel calm.”

“Feel whole,” I agree, surprised at how easily those words slip from my tongue and into the space between us. Something else to bring us closer.

---